by Nick Jenkin
I think it might have been the offer of the bottle of wine that swung it, but Nancy was tentatively on board, so to speak, and everything was under way. All I had to do now was wait until the end of the year, book the train, buy the scooter and the adventure across Europe was on.
Nancy – I didn’t actually agree. To be honest, I thought by the time Christmas arrived, Nick would have forgotten all about it and another option would have arisen. But it did sound like quite an adventure.
September 2017, Let the Games Begin
Nick – We bought the scooter and had it delivered to my sister’s place in Barnes, London.
Of course, that was not without its problems. Between the time I began to look and the time I wanted to buy the scooter, they had introduced a new model. It was exactly the same as the old model except they had tweaked the emissions and for this honour they had upped the price by 250 pounds.
I spent weeks on the net and phone trying to find an outlet that still had last year’s model at last year’s price and felt pretty smug when I succeeded.
My sister is very kind and long-suffering. I suppose that comes from spending a lifetime in the same family as me! She had the bike taken around the back of her apartment and parked safely in the garden. She had been emptying the shed and had the clever idea of arranging hundreds of unwanted flowerpots all around the bike so that any hapless, night-time robber would not only have to navigate the locked gate, the side passage, and the dog but also crunch their way through hundreds of clay pots, let alone deal with my sister in her nightdress, curlers and rolling pin! I almost felt sorry for them.
Come September we left Symi, ready for our adventure. We flew to England, arrived at my sister’s apartment, went around the back into the garden, and lifted the cover off the scooter. Would it be all it looked, would it be damaged in transit, would it work?
It was a beauty. Red and white with lots of chrome, just like the ones I used to drive in the ’60s along Brighton sea front. Even Nancy fell in love with it.
Nancy – Nick never had a scooter in the ’60s and was never a mod.
Nick – Well I could have been. I was, in my fantasies. The fact is, Mods and Rockers happened in the early ’60s when I was too young to drive either a scooter or a motorbike. Whatever, Nancy was won over and immediately insisted on sitting on the back to try it out.
Nancy – I was still worried about falling off but Nick had ordered a box to be fitted on the back. It was red and white, just like the bike, and had a neat little curve in it to support my back.
Nick – So far, so good. But the blasted thing wouldn’t start. Brilliant. So much for a jaunt across Europe! It was all planned and paid for but the integral part, the scooter, wouldn’t start. We tried several times but all it did was cough. It looked good but didn’t work! I would sue the company. Hell!
Nancy – I peered into the tank, it had been delivered on fumes.
Nick – She’s good! I fetched some unleaded from the petrol station down the road and poured it in. Then we held our breaths. It started first time. Result! Perhaps I wouldn’t sue the company after all.
Just to explain: when we are in Greece my sister has the car but when we return to the U.K. for a week or 2, it is at our disposal. We had 2 days to spare so we did the usual round of visits: to Nottingham to see Nancy’s mother and family and then to Isleworth, in London, to visit my other sister.
Unfortunately, my other sister is now in a home suffering from Alzheimer’s. It is always a shock to see her because she was such a vibrant woman when she was younger. We visit whenever we are in the country and take photos and goodies to eat. This time it was baklava.
From Barnes to Isleworth is only a round trip of 10 miles but this was the chance to try out the scooter on the road. Would I remember how to ride a bike? Would I be able to negotiate the London traffic unscathed?
Nancy, rather worryingly, decided against practicing on the pillion. The first time she would ride the bike would be when we set off on the actual journey, the next morning. I was a little perturbed. Was she beginning to get cold feet?
Nancy – It was the first time Nick had driven the scooter and I thought it would be better for him to practice first, without a passenger. But, to be honest, I was also a bit nervous of being in the busy London traffic. We had planned to leave London for Greece early the next morning, so I wanted my first time on the scooter to be when it was quieter, with less traffic to bump into and less people around to laugh at me.
Nick – When I was 16, I had a BSA 175cc. It was exactly at the time when they introduced the crash helmet law. One minute I was swishing along with the wind blowing through my hair, I had more then, and the next I was imprisoned in a helmet. I couldn’t hear properly, I couldn’t see half as well and I looked like a proper twerp.
Yes, I know, it was for my own good. All the adults around me at the time made that abundantly clear. If I fell over the handlebars onto my head I would miraculously survive. Also, they would say, think about all the trouble it would be for the other road users and the poor ambulance workers who would have to scrape me up off the road, and the hospital workers, the police…but I never quite agreed about my loss of choice.
Greece, like Britain, also has a nanny state. It passes silly laws telling you what you can and can’t do as if you are unable to decide for yourself. But one of the things I love about Greece is that sometimes the Greek people simply ignore the laws. For example, the law says all Greeks must wear a crash helmet but do they heck. On Symi, and even on Rhodes, people decide for themselves. Very few people wear a helmet unless they are a tourist on a hire bike.
When we are in Rhodes, Nancy and I often go to a place called ‘The Ronda’ for lunch. It was built in the thirties by the Italians who, ahead of their time, designed it as a leisure complex with a yacht club, restaurant and an organised beach complete with changing facilities and art deco diving platform, (think “Death in Venice” swimming costumes). The main circular building has been transformed into a modern and airy coffee lounge, overlooking the sea. The point of this story, however, is that on the door there is a large sign clearly stating “No Smoking” whilst inside people just choose to ignore it and decide for themselves. It’s the same in lots of places all over Greece, even though the government is trying to clamp down on smoking in public places.
Now don’t get me wrong, smoking is deadly. Neither Nancy nor I want to passive smoke. If the domed ceiling in The Ronda didn’t evacuate the smoke, we wouldn’t go there. But every time we visit I am brought to laughter simply by the Greek’s cool indifference to the law. If I were a smoker with my British upbringing I very much doubt I would have the nerve to just ignore the sign and light up whereas the Greeks simply seem to get on with it. I suppose the fact is, I quite admire how relaxed many of them can be about such things. They don’t seem to be so uptight as me when I am in England. Something comes over me and I turn into a tight-assed twit – ‘It’s past 10 o’clock at night and those people are making too much noise!’, ‘Why hasn’t that house taken in their waste bin, it’s making the whole street look untidy?’ and so on.
I know this opens up a whole, wide-ranging discussion, so…on with the story.
I felt competent on a bike, with or without a helmet. Apart from the Beezer 175, I had owned a Honda 50 when I was teaching in Devon, remember them? What a racket. And a Suzuki 125 when I worked in London. I loved the Suzuki, it had style. It was metallic red and looked a bit like a small Harley. I had also hired lots of bikes while on holidays.
So, the traffic on the way to Isleworth wasn’t too heavy. I wobbled a bit to start with and probably travelled too slowly for the London traffic but the journey was uneventful and I thought I did okay for an old fogey.
While we were visiting my sister, we tried to explain to her about the scooter and the excitement of taking it across Europe but her Alzheimer’s meant she didn’t really understand. She didn’t even want to go outside to look at it. All she wanted to do was la
y on her bed and eat goodies. Indeed, it is all we can do to help her understand that we live in Greece. We show her photos and send her postcards but I’m not sure how much gets through. I wish I could transport her to Symi and sit her in the shade outside our house for a week but, sadly, all that is in the past for her.
Nancy – The thing about adventures like this is that one must be fully prepared. If you know what’s coming round the next corner, literally or otherwise, fewer things will leap up and take you by surprise.
So, I made a list of all the equipment we needed to buy, to travel lawfully through Europe and here it is: apart from helmets with visors, (which incidentally we had bought on a school outing to the island of Syfnos) we needed: hi-viz jackets, 2 breathalysers, a GB sticker on the rear of the bike near the number plate, a headlight sticker to deflect the beam, a spare bulb set, 4 luminous flashes on our helmets, boots that cover your ankles, coats that cover your arms, trousers that cover your legs, and, of course, gloves.
When we travelled to Britain, we knew we would be returning to Greece on the scooter, which meant we would be limited in what we could carry. Nick had the box fitted on the back of the scooter, but the rest had to be carried on my shoulders, in a rucksack. So, both of us only brought 2 changes of clothes intending to wash them as we went. We had coats in England but neither of us had boots that covered our ankles, when do we wear them in Greece? So, I bought myself a lovely pair of brown, leather, knee-length boots, out of necessity of course!
Nick – Of course, dear!
Nancy was brilliant at the planning stage. We had pored over maps and the internet, gauged distances and timing, firmed up the route to Symi and booked the hotel for the first overnight stop.
Day one was the most difficult. We would drive from London to Dover, take the ferry to Dunkirk, then drive to our motel just outside of Ghent in Belgium.
We were nervous! There were so many immeasurables. Would the scooter hold up or fall apart? Would I be able to drive in all weathers? Would Nancy be able to endure the journey? Would the rucksack, she was carrying, rest comfortably on the box or weigh down mercilessly on her back? Had we allowed enough time between destinations? Would we be able to find our way across Europe without the benefit of the car sat-nav?
Wet weather was my greatest fear. If it rained it would not only thoroughly drench us but, more importantly, slow us down. And it was a potential killer. Wet roads meant slippery surfaces. It also meant that my visor would mist up and I wouldn’t be able to see where I was going so clearly. Just as important, was the fact that other vehicles bearing down on us wouldn’t be able to see us so clearly. In short, rain would demand total concentration, bring on tiredness and would turn the whole adventure into a nightmare.
The train out of Dusseldorf left at 6pm on Friday evening. We planned to leave London at 6am on Thursday morning and rain was forecast for Wednesday night!
Into the Unknown
Nick – Wednesday morning didn’t dawn as much as dribble in. We both slept fitfully. I remembered in the middle of the night that the Europe road atlas was in the boot of the car and indeed was too big to fit in the box on the back of the scooter or in the rucksack. Anyway, they were both full.
Nancy – I realised that the shoes we had been wearing would have to be left behind, for the same reason. We had to wear our ankle-covering boots so no room for other shoes.
Nick – In the darkness of 6.15am, on the morning of September 29th, we turned ourselves out onto the gravel drive of my sister’s apartment. Mercifully, the rain had stopped but all around us were pools of standing water and the bushes were dripping. We uncovered the scooter which, like us poor thing, was still fast asleep. We had made a trial run of packing the bike the evening before, but we forgot that we had to fit in the bike cover as well. So, we found ourselves in one of those ridiculous moments – you know, all of a sudden it’s like you see yourself from above and realise how absolutely absurd life is. It was the first of many on the trip. In the murky grey of the London morning, there we both were, hanging on the back of the box, trying to squeeze in the cover at the same time as getting it to click shut. No click no trip. Finally, sighs all round, click.
Nancy – So much for being fully prepared! But I think I am good at organising and had collected together all the important papers, down to the last detail. It made me feel calm, checking and double-checking the documents for each leg of the journey. So, I had all the tickets, the first hotel booking, passports, bankcards, money and maps in my shoulder bag which we managed to bundle into the small compartment under the seat.
Nick – I went to the car, found the road atlas and tore out the relevant pages for our route across Europe so that Nancy could include them in her ‘important’ bag. Lacking a sat-nav, I had made detailed, drawn maps of how, for example, to get out of Dunkirk, how to find the hotel on the first night and where the station was in Dusseldorf, and they were in her bag too.
What neither us is owning up to is, there is a little lockup box on the side of the scooter and in there we had stuffed tea bags, not only for the journey but to last us at home. We laughed at expats who insisted on watching Coronation Street on the internet or had cornflakes flown in, but here we were carrying our own supply of tea bags. How pathetic is that!
I had a last look at the map to Dover – M25, M20, A20. We togged up, I pressed the starter, and it started. Then we pulled to the edge of Castlenau, in Barnes, a main artery road into London. We had hoped we might miss the London traffic but already it was gearing up for a busy day and was kicking out spray. I heard Nancy behind me mutter to herself, ‘OK. You can do this. You have to.’
Nancy – I knew I would be nervous about being on the scooter. However, this is what we had decided to do, so I set my mind to it. I just have to get on with it, I thought. And that was that. A little prayer did no harm either.
Nick – We lowered our visors, pulled out into the traffic and were on our way.
As we headed out, I thought, What the hell am I doing here? I’m an old man. We have a long and arduous journey ahead of us. Seven days of tussling with the unknown. Why aren’t I in bed slowly waking up to a nice cup of tea before making our way to Heathrow and a comfortable flight to Rhodes?
My sister waved us off, poor thing. She would also have preferred to be in her nice, warm bed. I had said to her the day before, ‘Why do I do this to myself? Why don’t I just give in and sit on a sofa with my feet up?’
She was great. She replied, ‘Do it while you can. It’s an adventure! Anyway, sitting on a sofa wouldn’t be you, would it.’
I wished I had bought the sticker I had seen and stuck it on the back of bike – “Adventure Before Dementia.”
We crossed Barnes Common, the rain dripping from the horse-chestnut trees, and made our first stop at some traffic lights. We wobbled but pretended we were seasoned bikers. Pulling away from the lights I grabbed the middle of the road so the car behind me couldn’t squeeze us into the gutter. My old dad used to say to me, when you are on a motor cycle boy, he always called me boy even when I was 40, pretend you are a car. Imagine you are sitting in the centre of a car-size space so that the cars behind you can see you, respect your space and don’t try to push you off the road. Well it worked, except for a few idiots who just couldn’t bear being stuck behind us and thought their place was in front of us, no matter what it cost. Nancy held me tight around the waist and I must say it was an unexpected bonus. We were togged up to the nines in our gear but immediately, with Nancy’s arms around me, it was like I was leaning back into a warm armchair. Except for my knees, they were freezing. The list of essentials said nothing about leg warmers.
Nancy – I’m not sure I like being compared to a warm armchair, thank you, Nick. I see myself more as a nubile young woman!
I hadn’t realised how cold it would be either. Luckily, I was being sheltered by Nick’s bulk.
Nick – And I don’t see myself as bulky, thank you.
The drive from Barnes, i
n South West London, to Dover was just under 100 miles and, according to the net, would take just under 2 hours.
Well that is in a car. How long on a wobbly, slow scooter? We held long discussions about whether we should buy a flexi-ticket for the channel ferry, thereby allowing us as much time as we needed, or whether we should buy a fixed time ticket which cost much less but put a deadline on us. In the end, we decided on the fixed ticket for the midday ferry. If we left London at 6am that would leave us 6 hours to make the journey, surely enough time.
Our first big challenge was the M25. Now I am sure that, for seasoned bikers, it is much the same as any other motorway but for me, even as a car driver, it has always been a mad, lorry laden, racetrack. A filthy, noisy artery that changes in size from 3 to 4, to 5, even 6 lanes, then down to 3 again. Here we were on our little red and white scooter, stuck defiantly in the middle of the inside lane, with dirty, grey juggernauts bearing down on us like modern dinosaurs, filling the rear-view mirrors before swerving at the last minute to overtake. As they pulled alongside, the air they displaced pushed the bike sideways towards the hard shoulder and then, when it passed, the vacuum sucked us back in behind them. The worst were the double trailers, one lorry pulling another, many of them from Eastern Europe. They were like trains. Just as you thought the worst was over along came a second. I was pulling right as they burst alongside then left so as not to swerve in after them.
I couldn’t ask Nancy if she was coping okay because of the din – the scooter engine, the traffic, the road noise. If I turned my face slightly the wind tugged at my helmet, jerking my head sideways and my visor upwards, and the surface muck from the night’s rain was spraying into our faces, reducing visibility. It was teeth gritting time.
